


Cut It Out

by PomegranatePomsom



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Abortion, Bisexual Disaster Herman Carter, Cannibalism, Chance Meetings, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, First Time, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Revenge, Self-Mutilation, Sex Make Babby?, Torture, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomegranatePomsom/pseuds/PomegranatePomsom
Summary: A chance encounter leaves Michael and Jake shaken and changed.





	Cut It Out

**Author's Note:**

> TW: All that shit in the tags.
> 
> Hello everyone! I've never played DBD so forgive me if my characterization of Jake is wrong.
> 
> Special thanks to Acemurdock for looking over this shit and giving me the warm fuzzies with his feedback.

This body is wrong. This is not its body.

 

Whatever meat casing the Entity had placed it in, it was not right.

 

It does not mind the chest, too fleshy and too small; the hips, too wide. It does not mind the thighs, just slightly too thick, rubbing together when it pursues. It does not mind the legs, thinner and shorter-- for even though its height suffered overall, it still towers above the game. It does not mind the arms, weaker; the hands, smaller-- throwing off its swing, making the knife feel bulky in its clutch.

 

Were it self-conscious, it might wonder if _she_ had noticed the change in stride; the lighter footsteps, the slightly higher voice.

 

But that is a superficial thought, and superficial thoughts do not matter during the hunt. All it needs to mind is its duty to the Entity, which drives it-- drives all of them. If it remembers that, the most important thing, every other burden and upset falls away.

 

That is why it does not mind the meat casing, for at the end of it all, it still hunts.

 

\--

 

It happens completely by accident.

 

There is no trial; it is a lull in their schedule. A dozen people crowd around a campfire, talking, patching each other up. Someone is singing softly, perhaps trying to get everyone else involved without seeming too pushy; no one has the energy.

 

Jake, seeing himself as metaphorically outside the circle as he is literally, stands. Quietly, because someone will fuss if he’s caught, he leaves. He walks, walks, walks in a large circle outside the perimeter of the camp. Always, he remains close enough to see the glow of the fire, far enough to miss the chatter.

 

He lets his mind drift off, lets it be free of noise for at least a few minutes before the gloomy, monotonous thoughts inevitably creep inside. He keeps his eyes to the ground; his feet have a rhythm, one that soothes, draws his attention.

 

It feels nice to give himself over to something that isn't the fight-or-flight mindset, so much so that he doesn’t notice himself breaking the circle and walk, walking until he’s already in the thick of the fog.

 

“Fuck!” he mutters harshly to himself once he’s regained some sense. He looks around frantically and finds nothing but the fog that clings to him, dampens his clothes, makes him smell of this place.

 

He calls out names-- Dwight? Laurie? David? Nea?-- before he has the good sense to shut up. Hold his breath. Listen.

 

There’s something other than his beating heart, a sound outside his body that catches his ears. It’s faint, but clear. Most importantly of all, it isn’t growing louder, isn’t approaching.

 

Breath still held, Jake heads toward it, every move deliberate, every step as silent as possible. He focuses only on the sound-- breathy, frustrated little moans-- and finding its source. The closer he gets, the more worried he becomes; whoever this is, they sound pained. They also sound unfamiliar, and he fears the worst-- that some new person had fallen out of the sky and into the lap of some fucker with a knife and too much free time.

 

He concerns himself with finding them, forgoing his quiet steps and held breath and barreling through the fog. “Hey! Can you hear me? Where are you?”

 

The noise, which seemed just out of reach, stops suddenly. He curses, scolding himself for scaring them.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you! Just tell me where you are!” he calls again.

 

Still there is no reply. Frustrated, Jake waves at the fog angrily, perhaps hoping that if he puts enough force into it, it might magically clear. And much to his surprise, it does; as quickly as it descended, the fog lifts, placing him back into the same forest he came in from.

 

Not _exactly_ the same. Instead of a dense wood, he finds himself standing in a clearing with nothing but a single tree in its center.

 

Squatting down by the tree is a man.

 

His back is to Jake, and he is holding himself. His wide shoulders are shivering and he is rocking himself slightly on his feet.

 

 _He must be the one I heard_ , Jake thinks to himself. He gets the impression that the man is in shock; his brows knit up in worry.

 

“Are you all right?” Jake asks, approaching the man slowly. As he grows closer, he spies the dried and crusted blood on the man’s dark shirt, previously muted by the dim light. “Oh, fuck…”

 

He reaches out; he touches the man’s firm, muscular shoulder.

 

The man shoots up suddenly, turning on the balls of his feet to face Jake. Their eyes meet and Jake feels an icicle lodge itself in his spine. Though his blue eyes are empty, the man has a piercing gaze. His handsome, chiseled face is set firm into something that, despite being blank, exudes hatred.

 

The man, more than a head above Jake, stares down at him.

 

 _An angel_ , is Jake’s first thought. The man is an angel, sent down to punish him. Any moment now, the angel will show his wings and his hundred eyes and Jake will melt into a puddle of purgatorial-bound ooze.

 

But the angel does not damn him, the angel does not reveal his monstrously beautiful form. The angel simply stares, judging, assessing this sad mortal and what he will do.

 

What _will_ Jake do?

 

Jake will pause, awed by the angel with the curly chestnut hair, the one who can make a dirty tank top and a boiler suit tied at the waist look more majestic than all the flowing robes in heaven.

 

Then he will reach out and he will take the angel’s hand. It is calloused but warm. Maintaining eye contact, Jake will slowly lift the hand to his lips and he’ll kiss it, reverent, as all men are when they meet heavenly spectres.

 

The angel cocks his head at him. Something about this is familiar, on the tip of Jake’s tongue. It sets off alarm bells deep in the recesses of his brain, but he ignores them. If his mind can’t conjure up a proper reason to be cautious, surely it isn’t important.

 

“Are you okay?” Jake finally manages to ask, but he is embarrassed by his own question. Of course this angel is all right-- angels can’t be hurt. The blood on him is the blood of those who were judged and had failed their trials. Silently, Jake prays the angel has disposed of every motherfucker the Entity has spit out. Every bastard who hurt him and his compatriots-- chased, tripped, ensnared, frightened them.

 

In particular, the angel has a large, crusted, oblong stain of blood just below his breast and Jake reaches out for it, hoping that it belongs to the bastard with the bear traps. Jake touches the angel and he flinches.

 

Jake pulls that hand back, the other still loosely entwined with the angel’s. “Sorry,” he mutters.

 

The angel’s eyes narrow and his grasp on Jake’s hand becomes tight; suddenly, he yanks Jake forward, spinning them, slamming Jake against the tree.

 

“What the-” Jake cries out, just before one of the angel’s massive hands slams against his throat. He chokes. Kicks. Grips his nails into the angel’s hand.

 

The angel pulls him back, slams him into the tree again. Jake realizes that this must be his judgement. He’s being tested, right? If he fails he dies, just like in the hunt. Just like the world outside the Entity’s realm.

 

Jake isn’t going to die. He wraps his arms around the arm holding him and with the leverage, brings his leg up and into the angel’s stomach. He’s rewarded with a tiny _oof_ , so small he’ll only note it in the aftermath. As he’s pulled away from the tree he swings his legs again, this time raising his knee up to heaven and smacking the angel in the chin. He hears the click of his teeth, and notes with pride the way the angel’s face scrunches up just so.

 

But it isn’t enough to free him. Breathing is becoming hard. The back of his head is raw from scraping tree bark, with only his thick jacket sparing the rest of his back.

 

He rears his legs back one more time and as his kick hits home he prays that angels have dicks.

 

After the impact, the angel pauses briefly to gaze down at himself. He squeezes his thighs together, seemingly as confused as Jake is, but after a moment, his eyebrows lift and he nods to himself once, understanding.

 

It’s just enough of a distraction. With all his strength, Jake pries the hand off of him, falling to the ground. He sputters, clutching his throat.

 

Perhaps stupidly, Jake does not run.

 

The angel towers above him, gazing down, eyes wide and boiling with righteous fury. Maybe it has something to do with the lack of oxygen to his brain, but Jake can’t stop himself from being _excited_ by that look.

 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says breathlessly. “This place is so dead and ugly. Yet here you are, gorgeous.”

 

Evidently angels don’t accept flattery, since this one responds by grabbing a fistful of Jake’s hair and dragging him along the grass. Jake struggles, gripping the angel’s thick wrist once again. He tries to lift himself up, relieve a little of the pressure on his head, but it’s pointless. He’s tossed to the ground again within moments.

 

The angel kicks him in the ribs, stomping on his stomach. Stomping again. He comes down for a third blow, but Jake catches his boot between his hands, pushing the angel away. He takes a stumbling step back but regains his balance quickly.

 

The angel sizes Jake up again, his already dire features growing darker. But just as Jake is sure he’ll try for his throat again, the angel turns away, looping around to the other side of the single, massive tree.

 

This is his chance. Jake rises up to his knees, clutching his aching stomach. He’s slow, and _fuck_ he’s in pain, but he manages to get up to his feet again. He takes a few shaky steps and he knows that he can run. This is good.

 

But he needs to check, needs to see where the angel has gone. He focuses on the tree, waiting for his angel to turn up again. After a few moments of silence, he limps towards it, slowly making his way around its circumference. Nothing.

 

_What on earth?_

 

He holds his breath again, pressing himself against the tree. That’s when he hears it-- the heartbeat. Not his, his angel’s. Behind him, the tree, louder-- louder-- louder. It’s at his side when he pushes away from the tree, breaking off into a sprint.

 

Why hadn’t he noticed it before, the heartbeat? It was obvious-- always obvious. It was meant to protect him and he had ignored it. The angel looked too human to be one of the hunters-- too normal. He has no mangled flesh, no shrapnel sticking out of him, no missing limbs, no fucked up masks--

 

Fucked up masks.

 

Masks.

 

Boiler suit.

 

He’s seen the boiler suit.

 

The realization hits him, but he has no time to stop and think about it. He’s nearly free of the clearing, feet away from the disorientating, protective woods. His foot clears the trees.

 

A hand grabs his scarf, gagging him, pulling him to the ground.

 

The angel is gone.

 

The Shape looms above him.

 

“Fuck-” Jake shouts, the sound squeezed out by the sudden appearance of a boot on his gut. He groans, clutching the tenderized flesh there. Before he has time to react, the boot comes down on his head.

 

There’s an enormous pressure on his skull and Jake realizes he’s going to die. It won’t be the first time he’s died in this place, but this will be the first time it’s happened outside a trial. The thought freezes him.

 

What if he only comes back because the Entity can recycle him after the trial, rebuild the body sacrificed to it so that it might taste him again? If he dies like this, will he come back, or will that really be his end? He doesn’t want to find out.

 

But he can’t move. He’s dizzy, aching, and he’s pretty sure one of his ribs is broken. His breathing is hard and heavy, his lungs struggling to take in the air that he needs to think.

 

No time. The Shape raises his boot again, ready to crush Jake’s head like a Jack-o’-Lantern in December.

 

 _Down._ Jake sucks in a sharp breath.

 

“ _Y-You really are Laurie’s brother!_ ” It slips out fast, practically a single word.

 

The Shape stops. Lowers his foot to the ground.

 

Another cock of the head. Jake desperately searches that blank, pale face for anything he can read.

 

“Laurie. Your sister. You look-- just like her. Especially--” Jake reaches up, running his pointer finger across his forehead. “Up here. You both have widow’s peaks too.”

 

He laughs nervously. “When she’s really focusing on something, her eyes get serious like yours do too. That’s, uhh, that’s crazy. Must be a family thing.”

 

The Shape hasn’t made another motion to kill him, which is good. He doesn’t like to flap his jaw this much, but if it keeps him from being skewered, he’ll do it. He sits up slowly, leaning back on his palms. To his relief, he doesn’t feel any stabbing pain in his ribs.

 

“I’ll bet, uhh, if she saw you under the mask, she wouldn’t be as scared of you. She’ll probably think you’re beautiful, like I did-- _do_. And that’s uhh, good for you, right? Since you wanna, I guess, kill her and all. I mean, ha! Look how well it worked with me, ya know? I didn’t even think of you as dangerous when I saw you! That’s why I-- I…”

 

The Shape, in the span of Jake’s monologue, has crouched beside him. He is, assumedly, staring at him from behind the mask.

 

“...Why I kissed you.” His voice is low. “Which I am, uhh, really sorry about. It’s pretty rude to just go around kissing strangers.”

 

The Shape raises his hand slowly and Jake braces himself, ready for it to return to its home at his throat. A thumb strokes his lips instead, nearly sending him shooting out of his skin. There’s a beat; The Shape stares at him, perhaps expectant.

 

After a moment, Jake slowly presses his lips to the thumb, kissing it. The thumb is drawn back, replaced by another digit. Another kiss. Another digit. Another kiss.

 

The Shape offers a limp hand to Jake, who takes it hesitantly. As he does so, he spots the previously unnoticed butcher’s knife clutched in The Shape’s opposite hand. He swallows hard, but continues his work, covering the flesh with kisses, leaving no inch unexplored. He turns the hand over, peppering his palm and the strong sections of his fingers. His lips trail down to his wrist and Jake notes the presence of an odd tattoo there.

 

“What’s this?” he asks, not really expecting an answer; he receives none. He takes a moment to examine it: it’s a ninety-degree triangle with the bottom line extended outward on both ends. Maybe it’s a rune? Or maybe it’s a segment of a stem? It _does_ remind him of a rose’s thorns.

 

Either way, it seems more like a brand than a tattoo. Feeling a momentary pang of guilt at that thought, he kisses it. The Shape yanks his hand away and Jake watches his grip on the knife tighten.

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “Give me another chance. You liked it, didn’t you?”

 

The Shape, like always, does not respond. He simply grips Jake’s jaw, pushing on his cheeks until his mouth pops open. When it does, he pushes a finger into his mouth, thrusting it slowly.

 

 _So that’s his game_ , Jake notes. He wants to be angry about it, but he’s honestly pretty turned on. When was the last time he’d gotten any action? Even before he’d come to this hell dimension it had been too fucking long.

 

So he goes along with it, sucking on the digit that was so lovingly forced into his mouth. Is this a game? Maybe. Is he more likely to be killed than fucked? Probably. Should he be fraternizing with the enemy like this? Definitely not. Does he care? No.

 

Eyes locking with those empty sockets, the emboldened Jake takes a experimental bite. It isn’t enough pressure to hurt by any means-- just enough to be felt. The finger stops fucking his mouth, but there isn’t any other movement. Jake takes it as a good sign.

 

He reaches up and gently pulls The Shape’s hand away from his mouth. He returns to worshipping the skin, but alternates between doing so with his lips and with his teeth.

 

He’s rewarded greatly, with a distant-sounding _sigh_ that makes his heart flutter.

 

“God, you must be pent up.” Jake says, punctuating the statement with another bite. “I heard you’ve been in a state hospital since you were a kid. I can’t imagine going through puberty in a place where you can’t even jack off in private.”

 

Mentally, he’s apologizing to Laurie, who confided this information to him after a particularly nasty hunt. She’d been distraught when she’d relayed their history and made him swear to secrecy. He felt dirty using the information she’d told him like this. He would make it up to her later.

 

He takes two fingers in his mouth, sucking, taking them as deep into his mouth as he can manage without gagging. He does this a few times, always maintaining eye contact, before pulling away with a wet _pop!_

 

“I can help. If you want me to, I mean.” It’s not like he would--or could-- force this guy’s hand. “What do you think?”

 

The Shape stands back up to his full, towering height. Again, there is a pause, thick, tense. Jake’s heart races-- he’s as terrified as he is turned on. The Shape grips the sleeves of the boiler suit, tugging them, untying the knot at his waist. The suit falls to the ground unceremoniously.

 

“So that’s what you want? Head?” Jake rises up to his knees, taking his place before The Shape. He places his hands on The Shape’s hips, pushing up the tank top and exposing that toned stomach. He cranes his neck, pressing his lips to the highest bit of skin he can reach. He trails his lips down slowly, carefully, trying to avoid setting him off while also staving off the inevitable. He continues until his nose is tickled by soft hairs, making him pull back with a shiver.

 

Jake’s hands move down until they find the legs of The Shape’s ugly, institution-standard underwear. He gives the fabric a slight tug. _May I?_

 

He’s offered no objections. In the language of this monster, which Jake is quickly learning, that’s as close to a “yes” as he’s going to get.

 

He proceeds cautiously, as if-- what? The man’s dick is going to bite him? That’s ridiculous, even for this place and its denizens. He rolls his eyes at himself and just tears off the damn pants.

 

He blinks at the sight before him, then up at The Shape. “Oh, uhh, Laurie never told me that you’re-- No, it doesn’t matter. It’s not really anyone’s business, especially not mine. You mind if I touch?”

 

A massive hand strokes the back of his head-- another way, he assumes, to say “yes”.

 

Jake licks one of his fingers and dips his hand between The Shape’s thighs, running the digit between his outer folds. There’s no reaction from the body above him until he motions to remove his hand, unconsciously bumping his clit as he does. The Shape’s body jolts slightly, his fists clenching.

 

“...That good?” Jake asks, pressing his thumb against the little bundle of nerves. He rubs it in slow circles, fascinated by the reaction he’s getting. The Shape clenches and unclenches his free hand, digging his untrimmed nails into his palms as he does so. It’s a surprisingly robust display from someone so flat and unresponsive. Jake pauses briefly to shrug out of his coat; he’s suddenly feeling too warm.

 

It hits the ground and he’s back to it, working over that sensitive nub. On occasion The Shape will buck his hips towards Jake, emitting the tiniest of _ahh- ahh!_ s. Maybe it’s because all the blood has flowed from his head and into his dick, but Jake can’t help but find it kind of cute. With enough imagination, maybe he can pretend this is just a weird public sex roleplay thing, pretend that The Shape is an ordinary lover.

 

Rolling with that, he murmurs huskily to his angel,  “Spread your legs a little for me, all right? I wanna make it even better for you.”

 

The Shape complies with no fuss. Gingerly, Jake runs a finger through those folds again, noting how damn wet he is-- how ready to be bent over and _fucked_ he is. Jake shakes the thought out of his head; he doesn’t know if this is going to lead to a fuck at all, but what he does know is that if he gets ahead of himself, he’s dead. Literally, unironically dead. And what a way to go that’d be.

 

Gently, he presses that finger against The Shape’s entrance, looking to him for permission. There’s no evidence of dissent; on the contrary, his clawed, shaking hand makes him seem like he’s begging for it. So Jake gives him what he wants, pushing his finger inside of him. He gives a few experimental thrusts, testing the waters before he inserts a second.

 

“How’s that?” he asks; he gets another soft sigh in response. Good, but not enough. Jake’s already seen the glass (or rather, rubber) mask begin to crack and he needs to see if he can break it. So he hooks his fingers, pressing them against the frontmost wall of his angel’s insides and moving down slowly. He pulls them over a certain spot and he hears the man above him _choke_. Jake smirks, just a little.

 

With his other hand, he presses down on his angel’s pubic mound as he continues to rub at that spot inside him. The Shape jolts, taking in a breath. The sensation is _different_ and his body sends out that _pain_ signal. He raises his knife instinctively, ready to bury it into Jake’s skull when an odd, _odd_ feeling washes over him. His eyes roll back and his grip loosens; the knife falls to the ground with a dull _thud_.

 

Jake is honestly amazed. Sure this always seemed to work in porn or trashy novels, but that shit is fictional, staged, while this is as real as it gets. He picks up the pace, moving his hand just slightly faster-- minutely faster. The reaction is amazing; The Shape-- Michael-- brings his shaking hands up, clasping them over his mouth, suppressing some meek, declawing noise. Jake would have given just about anything to hear the sound a monster makes when it is humbled into a man.

 

Even without that particular reward, the display before him is still breathtaking.

 

He recalls the incidents where this angel, broad and strong, hefted him onto his shoulders and onto meat hooks as though he were made of air. He recalls the bursting through of walls, the ripping off of closet doors, the near-indiscriminate destruction of this behemoth. And the knife. He remembers the knife. It digs into his side, his back, his neck. Any part of him that is fleshy and vulnerable has been struck by this angel with an almost inhuman precision. It seems to Jake that this being before him might have a better anatomical grasp than the wide-eyed, tooth-baring monster in a lab coat.

 

To see the angel behind that destruction--behind that terror-- made lowly by his hands… well, it makes Jake unbelievably hard. Almost unbearably so. He stops, moving the hand outside of his angel away, needing to at least free his straining erection before they continue. His wrist is seized, held.

 

Michael speaks no words but still manages to say, with the simple use of pressure on Jake's wrist, _Why did you stop?_

 

“Just a minute, okay? Just give me one second.”

 

Michael refuses. He tightens his grasp. Jake feels the straining in his joints.

 

He hisses. “All right! I'm sorry! Let me go!”

 

He is relinquished. Jake shakes the soreness out of his wrist then presses his hand back to Michael's mound, continuing. There's less of a response this time-- no sealed up little moans, and only the occasional buck of his hips. It irritates Jake, who had, only moments ago, felt so smug. He feels toyed with. He refuses to be.

 

He goes faster, presses against that sweet spot _harder_ ; there would be no gentle increases in pace, no leniency for perceived notions of virginity. If Michael wanted to brutalize Jake, Jake would brutalize in turn.

 

But it seems that just as soon as he really focused on the breakneck pace, it was over.

 

Suddenly, Michael clamps his thighs down on Jake's hand, stopping him. He doubles over, wrapping his arms around Jake's head, pulling him harshly to his abdomen. His entire large, powerful body trembles and if Jake quiets himself, he can hear a series of tiny, hiccup-like moans-- short, sweet, amusing.

 

It's a good minute or so before Jake's angel releases him, slumping to his knees before sitting on the ground. Jake examines his hand and notes that it is absolutely soaking wet.

 

“You came,” he notes, satisfied with himself. “Was that your first time?”

 

The closest thing he gets to an answer is the shudder in Michael's heaving chest. Jake takes it as a “yes”. He wipes his hand off on his shirt.

 

Jake stands and takes in the sight before him: The Shape, ruthless spree killer, lays spread out on the ground. He is disheveled, with his pants around his ankles and his firm body covered in a slick sheen of sweat. He looks honestly, thoroughly fucked-- mostly harmless, even. If Jake were a bolder man he'd jack off over him and blow his load on that stupid mask. Luckily for the both of them, he has enough sense not to try.

 

While he's disappointed that his angel is down for the count, and he is doomed to a night of blue balls, Jake can take pride in the fact that the sight before him will rob Michael of his power over him. Jake would never see him and be truly frightened again, for how could you fear a man-- no matter how monstrous-- that you had sexed into submission?

 

That knowledge is just as good as getting off.

 

He turns away on his heels. Back to the forest he will go, back to the comrades he doesn't doubt are sick with worry by now. He'll assuage their worries with quick little dismissals and vague relays on his goings-on. Then he'll pull Laurie aside and he'll sit with her just outside the ring of firelight, hugging her and apologizing for worrying her. And he’ll promise himself that he’ll never breathe a word of this to her, or anyone, and he will be grabbed--

 

He _is_ grabbed, specifically by the ankle. He is pulled from the thought, pulled away again from the treeline. He stumbles backwards, falling flat on his back, winded. Before he realizes what's happening, Michael is kneeling over his legs.

 

Wordlessly, Michael tugs at his belt, pulling it free of the buckle. He unzips the fly of Jake's pants and without an ounce of grace, yanks his pants and briefs away.

 

Jake can't help but gasp at the feeling of cold air on his dick. It's short-lived, though he isn't sure if he should be grateful, since it's Michael's strong fingers that curl around and warm his cock.

 

He groans as his angel begins to stroke him off slowly, almost hesitantly-- perhaps unsure. Jake isn’t sure, but to be honest, he doesn’t care. He’s too wrapped up in bucking his hips up and fucking Michael's hand. The calluses on his fingers and palm rub back as he thrusts; the feeling is surprisingly erotic, in some indescribable way. Perhaps for no other reason than he’s enjoying himself.

 

“Gonna help me too? I-I appreciate it.”

 

Michael looks up from his task, considering Jake. He cocks his head at him again. (Every subsequent time he does it, Jake finds it becoming more and more cute. Maybe he’s going crazy?) He removes his hand.

 

Jake is about to ask if he misspoke, when Michael plants both of his hands on Jake's chest, shifting his hips. He lowers himself down, sandwiching Jake's cock between them. Jake raises a brow at him.

 

“Are you… trying to put it in? Do you want some help?”

 

Jake's question is answered when Michael begins to move his hips. Braced on Jake, he slides the length of his dick between his lower lips.

 

“O-oh,” Jake murmurs, suddenly understanding. This was something else he'd read about before, but it’s still a pretty out-there type of thing. “Not that I'm complaining, but where'd you learn to-?”

 

Simply, Michael points to his eyes.

 

“From watching?”

 

Michael nods.

 

He tilts his hips just so, changing the angle so that when he moves up towards the tip of Jake's cock, the soft head will bump his clit. His hips jolt the first time the contact happens and his body begs for more.

 

He complies, rubbing faster, living for those little jolts. Until he shoots his hips too far forward, allowing Jake's cock to spring back up; then, when Michael moves backward, the head of Jake's cock pushes inside of him. He freezes.

 

Jake, who had been enjoying the ride, also freezes. There’s a long, awkward pause, neither man uttering a word or moving an inch. Jake is still for fear that if he makes the wrong move, takes the initiative, it will cost him his life. Michael is still because…? Jake isn’t sure. He could theorize, but nothing he comes up with really makes sense. It couldn’t be a confidence issue, or an issue of pain. Michael is a tank-- he regularly takes blows that would kill a lesser man, so something like this should be nothing to him. Jake is baffled.

 

He can’t focus on it for too long, as his body begins to ache. Michael’s hands still rest on his chest, pushing down, making his ribs cry out from the pressure. His head, his legs, his throat all burn, still pained by his rough treatment. Doing its best to cry out above the other pains, however, is his cock, unbearably hard, unbelievably close to his angel’s honey pot. Jake wants to do something stupid, wants to grab Michael’s hips and slam him down on his dick. He desperately wants to hear the gasp Michael will make-- needs to hear those little moans that will escape as he fucks him senseless. Stupidly, his hands slide up Michael’s bare legs, finding a home just above his Apollo’s belt.

 

Perhaps sensing something amiss, his angel retrieves his knife, flashing it, his replacement for yellow and black splotched skin. Jake stills. It isn’t enough; the knife is at his throat.

 

His hands fly away from Michael’s hips, and he holds them up in full view. _Easy, easy. I’ll keep my hands to myself._

 

The knife stays poised on him for a long moment before it is slipped away and thrust down into the dirt. _Sufficient._

 

Jake lays his hands down slowly; no sudden moves, no taking his angel by surprise. The man on top makes the rules.

 

Once the natural order seems established, things can start happening. Michael leans back, resting on his legs and pushing his hips out, giving Jake a pretty little view of where their bodies meet. He feels his dick twitch; evidently, he isn’t the only one, if the small jerk in Michael’s hand means anything. Fuck, it’s these reactions, these breaks in his angel’s usually stoic persona, that get him going more than anything. He never would have imagined that simple hand movements or quiet sounds or rough treatment could be so _sexy_ , yet here he was, painfully turned on and eager for more.

 

Luckily for him, his patience and accommodation seem to finally pay off. One hand holding the base of Jake’s cock, Michael begins to slide himself onto it, inch by inch. The process is agony for Jake, drawn out far too long. It’s almost sadistic how slowly Michael takes his dick; Jake knows he’s fond of playing with his prey before he kills them, but this seems unnecessary. Torturous.

 

But it’s worth it-- oh sweet fuck is it worth it. Michael takes Jake to the hilt, his shoulders sagging and his head tipping back when he bottoms out. He feels so sweet inside-- hot, tight, throbbing. Jake feels like he’ll lose himself in this feeling; his body and brain are screaming at him to move his hips, claim his angel, fuck him until he can’t breathe underneath that stupid mask of his.

 

“Please move,” he begs instead, digging his fingers into the grass just to avoid grabbing those hips again. “God, _please?_ ”

 

Michael leans over him, drawing closer until their faces are inches apart. Without even thinking, Jake closes his eyes and purses his lips expecting, perhaps, something intimate. Something involving making out with a rubber mask. It’s stupid, but what man makes rational decisions when he’s balls deep inside of a monster?

 

Rather than a mouthful of bleached-out Captain Kirk, Jake gets a few harsh pats on each cheek; he stares up at his angel.

 

He can see the outlines of his eyes, just barely visible through the darkness of the mask. There’s that intensity again, making chills run up his back. Does he always look this intense? When he’s chasing them, sacrificing them, grabbing them by their legs, shirts, throats-- is he always so focused, so unwavering? Does anything dull his drive?

 

Jake’s heart pounds.

 

He’s so lost in his thoughts about his angel that he fails to notice when Michael actually starts to fuck himself on Jake’s cock. He raises himself up slowly, movements so controlled, before he slides back down. To a distracted mind, they’re barely notable movements; despite how absolutely on edge Jake is, he doesn’t even notice until Michael grips his shoulders, digging his nails in and drawing him from his stupor.

 

He moans softly. His hormones are raging and his nerves are firing off; his brain is as lost in a fog as the rest of him. Perhaps spurred on by his sounds and the glazed over look in Jake’s eyes, Michael thrusts himself with less hesitation. It doesn’t last-- the feeling is too odd and after just a few moments, he stills.

 

Jake grunts. “What’s wrong?”

 

No reply.

 

“We can stop.”

 

Michael pauses, contemplates. He slips off of Jake’s dick, taking a seat on the grass. He unlaces his boots, kicking them off, along with the clothes that had been comedically pooling around his ankles.

 

He rests on his elbows, legs bowed and spread. He stares at Jake, waiting.

 

It takes Jake a moment to realize what’s being demanded of him, but when he does, he scrambles between those legs, giving his cock a few absentminded tugs before lining himself up with Michael’s waiting cunt.

 

Just before his pushes in, however, Michael grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head forward. Again their gazes meet, but more than just intensity in Michael’s eyes, Jake can find the words his angel won’t speak: _I’m giving you control. If you hurt me, you’ll die._

 

Jake nods to him-- _sure, of course_ \-- and his hair is released; Michael’s hand stays resting at the base of his skull.

 

And with all the respect and care his angel deserves, Jake slides home. He exhales, the combination of that tight body and that tight _heat_ nearly knocking the wind out of him. Right now, he isn’t sure if he’s the luckiest man alive, or the stupidest. He is, most likely, probably tucked somewhere safely in the middle.

 

He can’t take any more waiting, so he does the only thing his brain can think to do: fuck this man. He grinds them together, burying himself deep inside of Michael with each steadily-paced thrust. He pulls out, draws himself out of that amazing heat as much as he can bear each time, before slamming back inside, forcing their bodies together with sickeningly erotic sounds.

 

At some point Michael’s arms slip around his back, clutching him, drawing Jake’s body nearer. Jake buries his face in the skin of Michael’s shoulder, breathing deeply, indulging in the smell of him. Wet earth, wet leaves, sweat, blood; something sweet, yet distant-- Jake notes, with a bit of amusement, that Michael smells like Halloween. Something about this--and everything about _this_ \-- revs him up and makes his hips piston faster.

 

He doesn’t get the reaction he craves, doesn’t eke out the gasps and the loud whines he desires, but as Jake fucks Michael into the dirt, he does get _something_ . When he angles his dick right, hits that _good_ spot, his angel will let out a tiny little _a- ah!_ , too small to be considered a whisper. When the position shifts, when Michael’s legs lift off the ground and he has to wrap them around Jake’s waist, he actually _moans_.

 

Jake wants to say he loves his voice, wants to prompt him to speak-- wants, so badly, to hear Michael call out his name-- but the part of his brain that still has a grip on reality tells him that would be a very, very unwise idea. So he soaks in the little noises he’s allotted, absorbs them and lets them fuel his unyielding efforts to plow Michael until they both pass out.

 

-

 

There’s a pressure in its gut, not unlike the one it experienced a moment ago. It’s a flame, lapping at its organs and growing stronger with every nudge of its nub or brush of that odd spot inside it. Its body is in overdrive about it, about having this intercourse with its game. Its instincts say the pressure is a sign of imminent danger, something it should resist; its brain says this is a natural resolution, something to accept, the next stage of adult life. This conflict is maddening enough without its reproductive organs-- the internal, pulsating _thing_ that replaced the simple meat hanging off of it-- pleading, throbbing for more, wanting it to beg like a cat in heat for its game’s tool.

 

Its throbbing had caused this entire mess. It seemed to pulsate any time it stood too close to any man it could tolerate. The pair with the chainsaws  especially seemed to cause strong reactions, mostly when they readied their weapons and charged their game with abandon. Something about them made its organ pulse and its thighs grow wet.

 

Now the throbbing was making its brain melt. Soon it would be nothing but a puddle on the ground and it would be even more empty than it already is. It should fight that, slit the game’s throat and toss his body away before things went any further, but every part of this meat casing wants more. It wants to be swallowed up in the flames, wants to immolate-- makes _it_ want to immolate. The temporary relief of that pressure, the throbbing, had felt so good before; its body is sure that, now that it’s skewered on the game’s tool, it will be even better. More natural, more fulfilling. It just has to let it happen.

 

The devil’s own, it lets the flames lick its feet, rise up its legs, overtake its stomach and its lungs, burning its neck and singing its hair. They should hurt it, but they don’t; on the contrary, they are welcoming, satisfying. Doubly so when its game’s breathing goes ragged and his hips snap faster, driving his tool deeper into its core.

 

“Fuck, I’m close,” the game chokes out. Close to what, it wonders. Close to that relief, the overwhelming of his body by fire? Yes, Michael feels that too, feels the pressure mounting. It feels _close_.

 

Just as it’s on the edge, its game dares to withdraw his tool. Michael constricts the legs still wrapped around his waist, forcing the organ back inside. The awkward, sudden intrusion makes its hips jump, but that isn’t enough to deter it.

 

“You have to take it out,” its game murmurs with a groan; Michael ignores him. When the game refuses to move inside of it again, it takes it upon itself to do the moving, pushing its hips out towards the organ, just as it’d done when it was on top. The sweet friction returns, fanning the flames that had begun to subside. “Please, I’m…”

 

Michael doesn’t care; the game and his words mean nothing to it. The only important thing is the fire, the pressure, the release. It can feel it coming, just on the horizon. It tightens its throbbing, aching organ around its game’s tool and the thrusts have it seeing stars. _Just a few more_ , its melting brain tells it-- _just a few more and you’ll fly_ . So it impales itself on that tool _just a few more_ times and suddenly it bursts. The pressure comes to a head and it bursts.

 

It arches its back off of the ground, burying its teeth in its lip to avoid making any sounds. Tears spring to its eyes, its whole body _feels_ in a way that it hasn’t in years. The flames rise over its head and within seconds extinguish.

 

It’s coming down from the high when its game bucks once more, stills and cries out. Inside of its organs a different heat spreads, leaving the remnants of cinders where the flames once were.

 

“I’m sorry,” Its game mutters, spent. Michael’s legs fall away and he can finally pull out. He crawls over, falling into the grass at its side.

 

Unsure of what else to do, he takes its hand and he kisses it. Softly, like it deserves.

 

\--

 

It’s not a one-time thing. It should be, but it isn’t. For (what Jake assumes are) months, they continue their trysts by that tree in the clearing past the fog. After some time it seems that every spare moment they have they slip away to see each other.

 

They have a code, more or less a safe word: if Michael enters the clearing with the sleeves of his boiler suit tied around his waist, it’s safe-- _he’s_ safe. It looks a touch silly, but it’s an important distinction. There have been times where he’s exited the fog fully suited, and when Jake approached to hold or kiss him, he was greeted by a knife in his side.

 

There’s no pattern to it, no way to predict when his angel will want to romp around in the grass-- Jake simply takes the leap of faith and hopes everything doesn’t go to shit. And while sometimes things proceed disastrously, most of the time, things go smoothly.

 

Their routine is the same each time: they meet, they mate, they leave. They never spend more time together than they need to in order to satisfy their needs; while no one on Michael’s side of the operation cares enough to keep tabs on him, Jake can only offer up the same excuses so many times before his comrades become suspicious.

 

After weeks of repeat disappearances, Bill and David extend an offer for one of them accompany him out on his walks. After Jake begins to return to camp with more cuts, bruises and bites, they insist on it. For even a moment’s reprieve he has to outrun, outmaneuver, outsmart them. Sometimes that involves letting himself be chased until he’s neck deep in the fog, but sometimes it’s as simple as weaving through trees and hiding. While their good-natured efforts make them stubbornly persist at first, after Jake slips away one too many times, they begin to fall back faster and faster. David continues to put in effort into his pursuits; Bill decides he has better uses of his time-- he won’t chase after someone who doesn’t want to be caught.

 

But no matter how much or little effort they expend on him, it’s frustrating-- every moment he spends evading them is another moment he can’t give to Michael. It’s an insane thought, one that disturbs him the first time it pops up in his mind. It’s accompanied by many other similar thoughts, all relating to the one Jake wants to call angel, all rooting themselves deep within his brain. He wonders when this is going to end and what will come of it. He wonders if he’ll be upset when it’s over. He wonders what will happen if they’re caught. Most of all, he wonders what this relationship would be like in another life.

 

He’s not going to kid himself and pretend that their affair is anything more than a mutual relief of tension, but he wonders if, in a world where they were both just _normal_ \-- could something happen? He and Michael are so similar-- quiet, self-sustaining, independent, resilient-- that he almost believes it could work. He’d never been one to seek out companionship, but to have someone reliable like that…

 

He pushes down the thoughts. Folds them into neat little packages and files them away into some cabinet in the dark recesses of his brain. Time and time again, however, the thoughts spring loose from their casings, from their trappings and they wrap themselves around his mind whenever it wanders. It is endlessly frustrating to try and listen to some plan, to try and participate, when striking blue eyes and statuesque features flood the synapses, making focus impossible.

 

Maybe this is part of the hunt. Maybe the Entity is toying with him; maybe his angel isn’t real, just a figment of imagination given tangible form, tenderizing his meat and softening his nature-hardened mind. This connection makes him vulnerable, vulnerability makes him easier to overcome and sacrifice. Had he not begun to hesitate when The Shape skulked its way towards him during the trials? Had he not, at least once, foolishly opened his arms when it approached and ended up in the Entity’s stomach as a reward?

 

He tells himself he’ll end it. Some small part of him agonizes when he makes this resolution, but that feeling only cements his resolve; he knows it will only get harder if this continues, if he lets himself become more attached to a man with the emotional intelligence of a goldfish. It will only end in disaster, with the overwhelming brunt of the consequences falling on him.

 

So he will end it.

 

\--

 

The last time he meets Michael under the tree, he kisses him. He asks, with the very slowest rolling up of that rubber mask, if he can. Michael does not break his arms for daring to touch his face-- no, he does not react at all until Jake pushes the rubber up to his nose, at which point he slowly licks his upper lip.

 

As though he were defusing a bomb, Jake kisses Michael. There’s a spark when their lips meet, one that sends a spark of ache right to Jake’s heart. He’ll regret breaking his off, he’ll miss his angel’s sharp features and tight body. He’ll hate that the only way to be embraced by Michael after this will be to be swung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes; hate that they’ll only look into each other’s eyes when Jake looks down at him, pleading, from up on the hook.

 

It’s for the best, he reasons, as Michael slips off his coat.

 

\--

 

It ends, but not when he plans it to. Michael, unpredictable, simply stops showing up.

 

\--

 

Michael vomits. The warm bile that rushes up its throat catches it by surprise and it vomits, mess leaking out from beneath its face. The warmth has just begun to spread down the front of its suit when it hears the familiar, nearly soothing, rasp. Shuddering through space comes the woman with the pillow case for a head.

 

She blinks to it quickly and without asking permission, pulls its face away, exposing the human-shaped thing underneath.

 

 _Are you all right?_ She asks without words. She reaches up, placing her petite hand upon its forehead. It remains there momentarily before moving to its cheek and then to its neck. _You are a touch hot._

 

It feels fine, and with an equal lack of words relays to her that much. It hasn’t been sick since it was small and it doubts it is now. She attempts to fuss over it, for she sees it as young and too-mortal, but it simply walks away.

 

That should be the end of the matter, but the sickness keeps coming. Twice more in the hours that follow that night and once more the next night. During the subsequent hunt, a child weighing no more than a hundred pounds soaking wet kicks it in the stomach. This should be nothing to it, but it has to drop her and flee, doubling over by the nearest supportive object. It heaves, just barely managing to avoid spilling more of the glowing yellow-orange gunk that fills its insides.

 

Something is wrong. It is sick.

 

It makes connections in its head. What had changed to make it sick? It had kissed its game. It had let the game seize its lips and push his tongue inside of its body, the same way he had pushed in his tool. Soon after that, the sickness began.

 

It avoids its game after that, in the hopes that severing further contact would cure it. Its theory seems to prove correct, for after a short period of time the sickness is relieved. It is fine.

 

The natural cause of its problems seems to be the game. While their time together is enjoyable, since it had begun to take the game to bed, this body had begun to change. It had grown warmer, softer, heavier-- everything counterproductive to the hunt. Aside from the literal sickness, it also stems a growing uneasiness, a murmur of disturbance on the calm water of his mind. It can’t place the feeling, can’t put words to it, but it’s familiar-- not unlike the feeling it has when it lays eyes on Cynthia.

 

It had been able to ignore it for months now-- between the hunts and its game, the time was mostly filled. Now that it has severed contact with its game, there is time to spare, time to focus in that disturbance.

 

Specifically, it is a humming. Not the sort of humming the rabbit-faced woman loves, but the humming that comes from things adjacent to nature-- neon signs, freshly stricken tuning forks, the sound in one’s ears after lightning strikes nearby. It is the kind that steals your entire focus. Normally, it is also the kind that centers its being, grounds it, reminds it of its purpose and its reason for living-- but now it is tainted. The hum is constant, and therefore useless.

 

Useless and obnoxious. Where once it was reassuring, the hum quickly becomes maddening. It begins to search its perimeter and the foggy, unknown recesses of the domain desperately, hoping it might find its sister. Surely that is the problem-- she’s been hanging about, taunting it, playing with its senses. She must know how her aura affects it and so she lingers, just out of sight, to fray its wires.

 

Try as it might, however, it cannot find her. No tree is uncircled, no stone is unturned, no shape in the fog unpursued. She is nowhere.

 

Until she is right in front of it. Until the hunt is afoot and she stumbles into its vision, gasping, startled, but quickly fleeing.

 

(She has long since stopped tearing up at the sight of it. No longer was she afraid, only appropriately cautious. Perhaps, in some long-dormant part of its brain, it feels a certain pride.)

 

The hum explodes in its ears, jolting its heart and sending it racing. It follows her, not simply excitement rising in it, but relief. _This_ is normal, _this_ is what it expects. This is its body reacting normally to the normal stimuli. This will reset the mechanisms inside of it.

 

It catches her by the hair, tugging her head back until she’s forced to look up at it. It plunges the knife into her back then, watching as her face contorts into something ugly and pained. A scream rips from her throat and as the sound travels, it feels the almost simultaneous stopping of hearts. It sees them, the rest of the game, in its mind’s eye.

 

The image quickly begins to fade. It slings Cynthia, dazed, over its shoulder, and as it moves towards the nearest altar, it makes a mental note of where the other three are and what directions they’re heading in. Two of them, smart, scatter, putting as much distance between themselves and it as they can. The third one it saw, before the blood-colored silhouette of him faded from mind, was dashing towards them. Eager to help his comrade, no doubt.

 

No bother. It has one task today, and while it differs from its usual _modus operandi_ , it has every intention of fulfilling it.

 

There isn’t a solitary soul who could stop it. But there is a solitary soul who tries.

 

It places, gingerly, its little sister upon the altar. While a moment ago she had been quiet and dissociative, when the hook enters her she springs back to life, vigor and voice renewed. She struggles, shouting at it and clutching the hook. She attempts to wriggle free, but it places its hands on her arms, holding her still.

 

Cynthia spits on it, kicking it, desperate. Her blows catch it in the chin and in the ribs-- too close to home. If it weren’t so dead set on taking care of her as soon as possible, it might consider taking its chances and leaving her alone to suffer. After all, the hunt isn’t finished until the fate of all four is decided, and the other three are still buzzing about, eager to complete the menial tasks that would stave off their inevitable deaths.

 

It should care about them-- the nagging almost-voice of the Entity scrapes at the back of its mind, pretty and meaningless words attempting to whet its appetite for their blood-- but it can’t bring itself to. She’s its only focus; she’s the most important. As long as she dies, nothing else matters. Besides, she’s fading fast-- soon, she’ll be hoisted up into the Entity’s maw and it’ll be well on its way.

 

Evidently, it isn’t the only one to notice this, because it hears a frustrated groan from the bushes nearby.

 

“ _Leave_.” the voice hisses, its owner thinking himself too quiet to be heard.

 

Its racing, adrenaline-pumping heart leaps into its throat. It turns away from its sister.

 

Its eyes scan every nook and cranny of the direction the sad little sound came from. When it’s sure it’s pinpointed it, it stalks over, body growing horribly hot. It kneels down to the bush, shoving its hand inside it. It’s prepared to grasp a scarf or a supple throat, but all it clutches instead is air.

 

From behind it, with a shout, its game dashes out from his hiding spot, nearly flying to Cynthia’s side.

 

“I’ve got you!” he shouts, but just as its game is lifting her up, it pulls him away by the jacket, throwing him to the ground. It puts its boot into its game’s stomach, leaning its weight into it and pinning him down. Its game struggles, kicking and cursing and apologizing. Its game, quiet in their time together, is suddenly so vocal.

 

There’s something about his voice that is entrancing, ensnaring. It lets itself drown in its game’s threats, letting the harsh tones soothe and steady it. The hum, which had begun to fade as Cynthia had, suddenly spikes again, ringing out from somewhere it can’t pinpoint-- almost reacting.

 

It’s so strange, so new, that it loses itself in the sensations until its game cries out. It comes back to reality just in time to hear the familiar sickening creaking and squelching as the Entity draws its sister up into itself. It is satisfied; it removes its boot from its game.

 

Its game-- What’s his name again? It had been told before. Josh? Jeremy? Jacob? Jake. That was what it is, Jake Park.-- remains on the ground, holding his stomach and glaring up at it.

 

 _How could you?_ His brown eyes ask. _She’s your sister!_ His tight frown shouts. _You really are a monster._ His knitted brows accuse.

 

It wonders why, knowing its nature, Jake is so offended? He’s told it that he lives in the woods, amongst the animals-- is he offended when the hawks snatch the rabbits? Is he offended when bees sacrifice themselves, by the hundreds, to kill the bear attacking their hive? Offended by the way snakes tangle when they mate? It putting an end to Cynthia (or any other no-name meat sacks, for that matter) is no different than any of those things-- it’s part of how its body functions, necessary for its survival as a species. If this simple man can’t understand basic biology, that’s his own problem.

 

It gives its game a nudge with the toe of its boot-- _Go on, get moving_. Still fuming, Jake grabs its leg, yanking himself up until he’s on his knees. In a moment he’s on his feet, but he does not flee, instead grabbing the collar of its boiler suit and yanking it down, perhaps in an attempt to bring it down to eye level. It does not work.

 

Jake tries again, with more force behind it. It does not work. He shouts, voice loud and angry. He reels back, swinging his fist up towards its face. It catches its game’s hand in its own. It grips it, rotating it as quick as a flash. Jake’s whole arm twists, but not enough to compensate, and they both hear the hideous pop of tendons and the crack of bones. Jake screams again, horror pouring out from deep inside his lungs.

 

It relinquishes Jake’s arm and he clutches it, lip shaking, eyes wide and wild. He’s so shaken that he doesn’t even move when his favor is returned and a fist catches him in the jaw. He topples, but before he can fall, he’s snatched up. It carries its game in its arms, cradling him.

 

After a few moments Jake comes to. He wriggles desperately, but it isn’t enough; just like its sister, its game is hung up. It steps back, taking a moment to look over its work.

 

There’s a surprising lack of satisfaction in it; the sacrificing of its game had lost its fun a handful of hunts ago. It thinks it should be frustrated by that, perhaps concerned-- none of the other survivors have lost their appeal, only him-- but whenever it tries to drum up some indignation, it finds it immediately dampened, as if smothered by a wet blanket. Left behind is nothing but the desire for the hunt, the tickle of a promise that _next time_ the desecration of this body will satisfy it, if it were to only keep pursuing. _Next time, next time._

 

This is a mystery, and it has no desire to sleuth, so it trusts that promise, does what comes naturally. There’s no sweet relief when its game ascends to the Entity, but maybe next time, next time.

 

There’s a quiet that falls after Jake is gone-- it senses the others around it, but they’re far, their noises minute. The crows do not want to call, the generators nearby do not churn or sputter; no branches snap or leaves fall, the swamps do not bubble, the old wooden buildings do not settle. Everything in the world seems to be holding its breath, and it hears nothing but the gentle humming in its ears.

 

The gentle humming.

 

The hum

 

Is not gone.

 

Its breath hitches in its throat. Something rises in its stomach-- not bile, but something unfamiliar. It makes its eyes go wide and its pulse race; a chill goes up its spine, the sensation much like cold fingers clawing up its back. For the first time in many years, it has the instinct to flee. From what is it fleeing? To where will it flee? Those questions don’t have answers, but it finds itself unable to care.

 

It wants the hunt over and it wants it over _now_. Not itself, it pursues not its victims, but the interdimensional trapdoor that sometimes formed in the earth itself. It had spotted it not too long ago and, senses heightened, finds it with ease. Placing both feet firmly on the ground, it grabs the handle of the trapdoor and pulls back, straining against the iron locks, but ultimately snapping the door open.

 

It listens, head tilted back slightly. There’s a pitter-patter of little feet, frantic. But mostly there is the hum. Unconsciously, it feels its breath begin to quicken. A small part of its biology murmurs for it to shove its knife into its ears, rupturing the drums-- there is no hearing the hum if there is no hearing.

 

Almost convinced, it raises its blade up, examining it, considering. Just as it rotates the blade in its hand into something more optimal for gouging, a twig cracks. Someone has come home.

 

It looks around, pretends it heard the noise come from another direction and leaves the hatch. It moves just out of earshot and waits. There’s a desperate, hiccuping crying that emerges from some hiding spot, followed by loud footsteps and the usual grating sound it receives when a piece of game escapes. It doesn’t care.

 

The last of the four is still stalking around, hiding, cautious-- so smart they’re stupid. If it takes a guess, it might say it’s the old man or the scrawny child who had made it stumble days ago. Whoever it is, they need to hurry; it needs to leave the hunting grounds before the incessant humming causes it to claw its own eyes out. Then-- _then_ it will be fine.

 

It stalks. It does what it does best. It moves swiftly and silently around the fenced-in space (the enclosure, where the Entity keeps its zoo), following every faint scent and spatter of blood it can find. However, it’s difficult; its mind is inattentive, thoughts racing. All it can perceive is this odd, rushing feeling and the constant hum. Distracted, it’s only by accident that it finds its prey.

 

It is indeed the scrawny child, adorned in her bright, poisonous colors. She sees it and she gasps, but a strange look comes onto her face: arrogance. She’s bested it before and she assumes she will best it again. Perhaps she believes she outwitted it the first time, truly outclassed it, as opposed to simply being lucky that it was in a vulnerable state.

 

It will humor her. It thrusts its blade at her and she jumps back, shaking her head. She turns on her heel and breaks out into a sprint, running, just like they always do. Pursuing her, it almost feels normal again. Steady, in control. But still not free of the hum.

 

They do the same dance: side-step between hiding spots, waltz around the wooden palettes. When she thinks it’s lost sight of her, she does her best _plié_ through the trees, tip-toeing, _en pointe_ , around her pursuer. It’s cute how she operates, so sure she’s mastered the steps when really, she moves like a newborn foal. It wonders, idly, what sort of sports let their players move so sloppily.

 

Just as the thought crosses its mind, she slips, falling and crashing onto the palette she was about to vault over. _Ah_. It had simply intended on corralling her to the exit, but this was just as good, if not sweeter.

 

It grabs her by the neck of her shirt, hoisting her over its shoulder. It takes care with its positioning of her, resting her legs high up on its torso. Sure enough, she tries to kick it in the gut again. She thrashes with vigor, beating on its back and its ribs. Later, it might even have a bruise or two.

 

She continues to thrash, even as it puts her on the altar. She shouts and spits and mocks, doing what all dying animals are wont to do just before they succumb. It isn’t enough to save her pride, enough to counterbalance the sad shriek she lets out when her body is skewered by spidery limbs. In a moment, she is gone.

 

There’s an instant, intense release of dopamine-- its reward for a (more or less) successful hunt. Simultaneously, the shacklelike weight is removed from its mind, freeing it. It closes its eyes, begins to walk, and in a moment the walls, the gates-- the enclosure-- are gone.

 

Not gone is the hum, nor the feelings that make its heart race. Alone now, brain throbbing with a dangerous mix of high and low hormones, it does what does not come naturally: it runs. Runs through the thick fog, through the stretches of nothingness; the empty lands that remind it of the wintertime fields of its youth.

 

It, still human, had run, just like this, through fields of snow coming up to its ankles. Its mother and father-- whose faces it could no longer remember-- had pursued, laughed when it had tripped and fallen, face first, into the snow. Judith had been there too, her face red from the cold. When it had fallen, their mother had passed the infant Cynthia to her. Her face had been angelic then as she cooed and bounced the child in her arms.

 

Every memory it has of Judith, of Cynthia, is still so crystal clear. Their parents had long-since become blurred background characters in its memories, but the girls persisted. If the good doctor were here and knew what it was thinking, it is sure he'd use it to further cement that (official, clinical) diagnosis of evil.

 

\--

 

Before it even realizes it, it is in the forest again. But not just any stretch of forest, oh no. As it moves through the thick wood and into a clearing, it knows it is in a very special place.

 

It glances around, hoping it is alone. Not only because it has no desire to see its game, but because it has no desire for anyone to be _seen_. While it knows it is a wall, unkillable, it also knows itself. And right now, it is despicably close to vulnerable.

 

Alone, hidden in a place where it can lick its wounds, it takes long, deep breaths. It tries so hard to ground itself, pull in its floating-off pieces. Its bucking heart does eventually slow, and the tension in its skull and shoulders fade. With enough patience the inkling of a migraine, which had just begun to seep into its brain, withdraws as well. It is almost back to normal, back to blank.

 

With the exception of the **hum**.

 

It thinks, though thinking was never its strong suit. It’s already tried every method of force it can think of-- it’s taken Cynthia, taken the game, completed the hunt-- but still the hum remains, unwavering.

 

But now that it is pausing, taking the time to embrace the hum, it notes that something is different. Before, the hum pulsated from Cynthia, marking her as something special, something to be destroyed. Marking her as its kin. It was a warning, a sign, a congratulations, a north star-- everything it needed to seek out and hunt its prey. Now it is nothing more than a hindrance.

 

What had changed? It rubs its temples through its white skin. _Had_ anything changed? Maybe it was still a guide and a warning-- but for what? It isn’t sure.

 

It tries to focus on the sound itself, trying to once more locate the direction it rings from. It is not from any cardinal direction; it is not from above, not from below. It holds its breath tight, feeling the hum not from outside but from--

 

Inside

 

Itself.

 

How had it not noticed before? The sound is on the forefront of its mind at all times, but for not even a second did it register that it itself emits the humming.

 

It puts its hands on itself instinctively, not at all sure how to proceed. What does this mean? Is it the new target now? It can’t die-- couldn’t die. Can it now? Should it try to now? It chews its lip; the brand on its wrist begins to itch.

 

That can’t be it. It can’t die while Cynthia and her family are still alive-- that’s the reason it exists at all. There’s some other reason its body hums, something it is misunderstanding.

 

Its stomach thrashes, sickness renewed. Instinctively, it places a hand upon its stomach, only to thrust it away as if burned. _Vibrations!_ It felt _vibrations!_

 

Cautiously, it unzips the boiler suit, shrugging it off of its shoulders before peeling back its tank top. It gingerly places the hand back on its middle. The sensation is so strange, turning its arms to gooseflesh.

 

It had placed its hand slightly lower than before and the vibrations seem stronger. It moves its hand upward; the vibrations cease. It moves downward; they increase. It continues to move downward, past its stomach until it settles on the skin above its organ. There’s an unusual warmth here. Accompanied by a slight, previously unnoticed, bulge in the skin, it brings to mind the impression of a hot water bottle. Most importantly of all, it seems to be the source of the tremors, for if it moves its hand down to its thigh, they cease.

 

Vomit rises in its mouth, but it swallows it back down. It listens. The hum emerges from there too, pulsing up to its ears.

 

It’s the organ-- the organ is sending out the heat and the hum and the vibrations. Not content with slicking up its thighs and making it near desperate for the carnal desires of the flesh, its organ haunts it. It isn’t sure if it should be angry or give in to whatever odd sickness is making its heart race and its eyes burn, but it knows that it needs to act. It needs to remove this cursed thing from its body before things spiral down further.

 

It strips, leaving nothing but the tank top bunched up below its pectorals. It leans back against the tree, staring down at itself. It had known from the moment it had awakened in this place that this body was wrong-- too fatty, too soft, too slow and too small. It had been able to ignore it for so long, however many months or years or decades it had been here. It had adjusted, adapted, and its body had not bothered it too terribly much.

 

Until its game changed everything. His touch must be caustic, it rationalizes, for had it not been fine until they began to meet under this tree? Its body, though wrong, did not fight against it, did not work to sabotage it as it did now. Everything could be blamed upon the game and it vows, once it has removed this oversized tumor from its body, to kill him. Painfully, slowly, extracting pleasure from the kill the way the thunderclap of a doctor does. Perhaps it will even put to use some of the methods it had learned from its time watching him.

 

Once it had seen the doctor cut and then peel away a man’s eyelids before carving out his cheeks and slicing out his tongue, all in the spanse of about a minute. He’d pocketed all of them, delivering them as presents to the face-wearing man and rabbit-faced woman, who both seemed delighted. On another occasion the doctor had managed to debilitate every piece of game on his hunt and had meticulously extracted all of their canines with only a knife and his bare hands. After the roots had been filed down, it itself had been given the teeth as gifts because, to quote the doctor, “They do so resemble candy corn I’m sure you adore.”

 

If it thought about it, the doctor enjoyed taking trophies, but never keeping them for himself-- he seemed to only keep the precious memories, while relinquishing the mementos to their comrades. Usually with a wink and a clumsy attempt at a quirk of his lip. It’s strange-- stranger even than his habit of drawing out his kills at any time possible.

 

It shakes its head-- focus. It is time to focus. It will ruminate on the doctor and contemplate a suitable end for its special game later. For now, its body still throbs and pulses, hums and fights; it is its priority.

 

It raises its knife, still covered in the viscera of the hunt, pointing the blade inward. It takes in a long, steadying breath-- and it thrusts the knife inside.

 

Pain blooms throughout its body, swirling through it in like blood in water. It is not comparable to pain it has endured before-- being shot, being blinded, being set ablaze-- but never has it inflicted something like this on itself. There’s an almost euphoric release to being totally in control of its own pain, like playing God. It pushes the knife down, making a nice, long incision; it shudders and doesn’t bother to suppress a groan.

 

It has to take another long breath before it can withdraw the knife, which it tosses away carelessly. With no tact or grace, it shoves its fingers into its wound-- two at first, then four. It attempts to push in its thumb, but the hole is too small. With a grunt, it hooks its four fingers inside itself and pulls, tearing the flesh and making the wound bigger.

 

There’s so much blood. It had never seen this much of its own blood before, not even from the bullet wounds. It pours out so freely, so eager to escape this body. It understands, as it too wants to escape the meat casing in which it is bound.

 

In its hand goes. Its insides are surprisingly warm, hot even. Are all of its insides hot, or just this horrible organ? It must be just this one, so alien and out of place. So oddly padded and so full.

 

Full.

 

_Full._

 

There’s something inside. Its heart leaps up into its throat. Quickly, it wraps its fingers around the object and pulls, yanking it so hard that a tiny cord of flesh connecting them snaps.

 

It’s getting woozy from the loss of blood and it worries if it will be able to endure it this time. Its eyelids are already heavy and flutter by the time it holds the foreign object up to its face.

 

It’s a tiny little thing, one that fits snuggly in the palm of its hand, semi-transparent and covered in blood. Its head is (comparatively) large and lumpy, while its odd and oblong body seems like a barely-attached afterthought. Its small arms and small legs, once displayed, writhe once-- its microscopic mouth opens once-- before all movement ceases completely.

 

It really does vomit now, just barely managing to pull back the skin of its rubber face before the rush of amber fluid mixes with the forming pool of red on the ground. There was a parasite inside of it! A tiny animal living in its organ, doing God-knows-what to it in the days it had stayed there! Where had it come from? Had the Entity put it there when it arrived? For what purpose? Could its game have done it? But how could a normal, unimpressive human put a parasite within someone?

 

Its brain is a swinging, swirling mix of confusion and anger, hindered by the creeping fog of death. Soon its body would fade.

 

It slides down the tree, the scraping bark too minute a pain to notice. It stares down at the little thing that rests, quickly going cold, in its palm. Its eyes bore into it, transfixed, even as blackness begins to edge its vision.

 

It curls its fingers around the little thing, clutching it in the same way that the little thing has clutched its brain. Just before it succumbs, It notes, with smug satisfaction, that the hum has finally gone.

 

\--

 

“Michael…?”

 

Jake peeks out from behind the trees, gaze fixed on the lone figure slumped by the tree. Cautiously, he enters the clearing, approaching with bated breath.

 

He kneels in front of his angel, who seems to be sleeping. His mask has been discarded and his face is serene, angelic enough to make Jake’s heart hurt. It feels like forever since they’d met last and every moment spent apart made Jake miss him all the more. He wonders if Michael knew about his intentions to cut their relationship off and had decided to end it himself, saving, perhaps, a bit of face.

 

He’d spent so much time churning over the thoughts in his brain-- muddling over the possibilities. But now, for the first time in forever, Michael is here and he can talk to him; ask him what went wrong.

 

Jake snaps his fingers a times in front of Michael’s face and he, surprisingly, stirs. Jake stands from his kneeling position and takes a few cautious steps back.

 

“Michael?” he repeats, unable to help the touch of tenderness that seeps through. As Michael’s eyelids flutter and open, Jake can’t resist the slight smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

 

Michael stares at him for a moment, lips slightly parted and eyes narrow, before both fly open. He practically jumps to his feet, staring down at himself. He gropes at himself with one hand, quickly tugging down the zipper of his boiler suit and tugging up his shirt. He touches his pristine, porcelain skin. His face, which betrays everything when not hidden beneath the mask, is twisted up in confusion.

 

“Something wrong?” Jake asks.

 

Michael doesn’t pause to give him even an obscure answer, instead lifting his other hand up and opening his palm, gaping at it. It’s only now that Jake notices the hand is covered in dried blood.

 

He reaches out to touch Michael’s wrist, ask what happened, when his angel violently jerks away, putting distance between them. Michael’s eyes turn downward, scanning the ground until they fall upon a spot where the grass has died and a caustic-looking yellowish liquid glows.

 

 _What the fuck?_ He wants to ask, but a guttural sound from Michael rips his attention away. His angel looks between the ground, his palm and his exposed belly, flitting between them rapidly. Something about this scenario isn’t right to him, and if it isn’t right to Michael, it isn’t right to Jake either.

 

He puts an arm around his angel’s shoulders, grabbing his bicep with the other. To his surprise, Michael is too enraptured to react violently, or at all. Stroking that strong, firm arm, Jake uses the position to peek and see what it is that has Michael so shaken up.

 

It’s-- what is it? He leans in for a closer look.

 

His breath hitches; he can even feel the air being forced out of his lungs. His eyes begin to sting.

 

He looks up to Michael, whose head turns to him, mechanical. Jake’s eyes flicker to the little thing in Michael’s hand, then back up to him, his mouth open but his brain unable to form words.

 

In the blink of an eye, Jake is on the ground, Michael on his chest. His angel’s face is painted up, renaissance, with so much anger and hatred that is makes Jake’s stomach churn. He has so many questions he wants to ask-- What’s wrong? Is that what he thinks it is? Is it _his_? What happened? Why?-- but the moment he goes to speak, Michael seizes his chin, pushing in Jake’s cheeks and forcing his jaw to stay open.

 

There is revenge in Michael’s eyes, something that burns so hot that the air around them seems to warm. Before, Jake had boasted to himself that he could never be intimidated by a man he’d reduced to a whimpering, orgasmic mess, yet now he finds himself to indeed be very, very frightened. He doesn’t know if this is normal for Michael-- if his anger is always so glowing white-- but he desperately wants to rationalize with him, plead, though he knows in the back of his mind it will do him no good.

 

He watches Michael hold the little thing delicately between his middle finger and his thumb, giving it one more look over before he lowers it, agonizingly slow, into Jake’s mouth. Jake tries to pull away, eyes watering now, begs escaping him in the form of throaty animal sounds. It makes no difference; Jake soon tastes it on his tongue.

 

His stomach flips, his whole body resisting. The little thing sits in the back of his throat, making him choke; Michael shoves two fingers into his throat, pushing it down, forcing him to swallow. Jake feels it hit his stomach.

 

The hand holding his jaw open now slams it shut, making Jake recoil from the pain. The other hand is in Jake’s hair, yanking him to his feet as Michael stands. He’s thrown against the tree, winded by the impact. His eyes are trained on his angel-- his handsome angel who, upon straightening up his shirt and boiler suit, Jake is certain will deliver onto him his long-due judgement.

 

Jake hopes. As Michael picks up the knife, he hopes he will also retrieve the discarded rubber mask. The Shape is a petrifying force, but he is quick, impersonal. Whatever fury lies behind the black eyes is contained and hidden. Michael Myers, Jake fears, will not grant him that same mercy.

 

Jake’s fears are confirmed as he’s pinned to the tree by Michael’s knife, all thirteen inches entering his side, missing the vital organs. When it is withdrawn, he tries to flee, but a hand, covered in crusting blood, holds him fast.

 

-

 

Thyroid, appendix, the liver, both kidneys, both lungs, both intestines, both eyes, both hands, both arms, both legs, both ears, head-shoulders-knees-and-toes (knees-and-toes). The scalp is gone, the nose too. The tongue is removed and the flesh of his abdomen is layered away. Never before had it been as violated by anyone as it had been by this man, so in turn it must violate him as never before-- that is the law of nature.

 

Jake stops begging long before it stops thrusting its knife-- its tool-- into his throat. He dies and with him, its satisfaction.

 

But that’s all right. In the Entity’s realm, no one stays dead for long. Michael has an eternity to make this wrong right.


End file.
